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nightengaleskndAs a (still) mostly closeted autistic, I didn’t participate in Autistic Speaking Day last year. The year before, I had written about why I was still in the shadows. And so last year, when the day came and went, I couldn’t think of anything to add.
I felt that way for much of this year as well. But then I thought about the ways I speak, and listen, as an autistic, for autistics, even when closeted.
Unusually (but not uniquely), for an autistic, my voice has long been my strength. I used words early and often. I wanted to know the name of everything. I puzzled over dogwood trees that didn’t bark (I barked at them) and a city called Braintree where there were no brains on the trees. I read and read and read. To this day, there are still words I know from reading which I have never heard spoken, which makes pronunciation a challenge if I ever do attempt to use them myself. I still read and read and read. I love that the words “read” past tense and “read” present tense are spelled the same but pronounced differently. I hear words spoken out loud in my head when I read or type. I cannot think in pictures without translating them into words first.
When older, I studied other languages. Latin, then French, then American Sign Language. Frustrated when my English teachers did not show us how to diagram sentences, I loved the structured way Latin grammar was taught. I loved my French 1 teacher’s insistence that French was not a code of English and the idea that languages were more than lists of words. I loved the grammatical markers of ASL, even though my visual processing challenges made and make them hard for me to see and master. I loved understanding English words with Latin roots and Greek roots and German roots and Arabic roots, and how that leads to multiple synonyms. I agree with Mark Twain, who is attributed to having said that the “The difference between the almost right word and the right word is the difference between a lightning bug and lightning.” Thinking about that quote makes me think about the way I learned the ASL for “lightening bug,” a story I cherish, and all the difference in nuance between “lightening bug” and “firefly” describing the same insect species.
I did not code-switch well as a child. Poorly armed with any other way to defend myself against the continuous bullying, I responded with the full extent of my vocabulary. “Speak English,” was the inevitable taunt. “I am,” was the only logical response. I refused to use curse words and popular slang. Over and over, I was goaded into saying “cool.” I would, using it carefully in a sentence to describe a day that was not warm and not cold. I couldn’t fathom using it to describe a person, place or event outside of temperature, even as I heard others apply it that way. I preferred “spectacles” for “glasses.” 30 years later, I still defend my right, then and now, to use large words and avoid slang at will.
But I have also learned the value of code-switching. I have carefully, purposely added some slang to my vocabulary. I picked up some useful Southern phrases when living in the South, which helped my communication with families and coworkers. I adapt my syntax and vocabulary to accommodate non-native speakers of English and individuals who might find my vocabulary intimidating and detracting from the message. After all, unlike many doctors who perform diagnostic procedures, my work depends greatly on my ability to communicate effectively. There is always a fine line between over-jargon and over-simplification, and the line varies from situation to situation.
Which brings me to my autistic ear. To choose the right words, I stay attuned to the words of others. How do parents describe their child? How does my co-worker describe a patient? This guides me to make an educated guess about their knowledge, background, beliefs. I may mirror their words, or I may decide their words are too dangerous to mirror. Either way, I use the information to guide my response.
In addition to an ear for vocabulary and syntax, I have an ear for tone and prosody. This is my salvation, since I do not have an eye for any but the most blatant of facial expressions or gestures. My ear tells me when families may be getting angry or frustrated. If an edge comes into their voice, I work the harder to remove any trace from my own.
I use my ear diagnostically, to figure out which children may join me in autismland. I listen for differences in pronoun use, phrases borrowed from TV or adult speakers and vocabulary which is unexpected for the child’s age. This helps me guide my referrals, even if I miss cues of eye contact or pointing. I joke about my ASDar, but it’s largely an ear.
Note that I did not say, “misuse of pronouns,” “echolalia” or “abnormal vocabulary.” Words matter. Respectful words matter. Even from the closet, I can model and insist on using words in useful ways. This means both avoiding language that serves to insult, and also that which serves to euphemize. This means choosing my words carefully for tact.
We are starting a new endeavor at work which has nothing to do with autism at all. But it is in an area of health care where language used to describe patients, by professionals and the general public, is often cruel. In addition to sorting out the medical knowledge I need to provide care for individuals in this group, I am trying to take a stand on language. I know that the language used by those in charge of a medical team has incredible potential to influence the language used by others. Language, in turn, affects attitudes, and attitudes can affect care. My stated goal is to use and encourage language that is both accurate and respectful, and to continually reiterate that these goals are not mutually exclusive.
That’s a mouthful, and not always the mouthful I will use at work. But I have to start in my head with the language that feels best to me. They may not know that I’m using my autistic ear and my autistic voice, but I’m using them none-the-less.
An autistic setting language models for others to use. Ooooh! I think I’ve found a new definition of irony!
I felt that way for much of this year as well. But then I thought about the ways I speak, and listen, as an autistic, for autistics, even when closeted.
Unusually (but not uniquely), for an autistic, my voice has long been my strength. I used words early and often. I wanted to know the name of everything. I puzzled over dogwood trees that didn’t bark (I barked at them) and a city called Braintree where there were no brains on the trees. I read and read and read. To this day, there are still words I know from reading which I have never heard spoken, which makes pronunciation a challenge if I ever do attempt to use them myself. I still read and read and read. I love that the words “read” past tense and “read” present tense are spelled the same but pronounced differently. I hear words spoken out loud in my head when I read or type. I cannot think in pictures without translating them into words first.
When older, I studied other languages. Latin, then French, then American Sign Language. Frustrated when my English teachers did not show us how to diagram sentences, I loved the structured way Latin grammar was taught. I loved my French 1 teacher’s insistence that French was not a code of English and the idea that languages were more than lists of words. I loved the grammatical markers of ASL, even though my visual processing challenges made and make them hard for me to see and master. I loved understanding English words with Latin roots and Greek roots and German roots and Arabic roots, and how that leads to multiple synonyms. I agree with Mark Twain, who is attributed to having said that the “The difference between the almost right word and the right word is the difference between a lightning bug and lightning.” Thinking about that quote makes me think about the way I learned the ASL for “lightening bug,” a story I cherish, and all the difference in nuance between “lightening bug” and “firefly” describing the same insect species.
I did not code-switch well as a child. Poorly armed with any other way to defend myself against the continuous bullying, I responded with the full extent of my vocabulary. “Speak English,” was the inevitable taunt. “I am,” was the only logical response. I refused to use curse words and popular slang. Over and over, I was goaded into saying “cool.” I would, using it carefully in a sentence to describe a day that was not warm and not cold. I couldn’t fathom using it to describe a person, place or event outside of temperature, even as I heard others apply it that way. I preferred “spectacles” for “glasses.” 30 years later, I still defend my right, then and now, to use large words and avoid slang at will.
But I have also learned the value of code-switching. I have carefully, purposely added some slang to my vocabulary. I picked up some useful Southern phrases when living in the South, which helped my communication with families and coworkers. I adapt my syntax and vocabulary to accommodate non-native speakers of English and individuals who might find my vocabulary intimidating and detracting from the message. After all, unlike many doctors who perform diagnostic procedures, my work depends greatly on my ability to communicate effectively. There is always a fine line between over-jargon and over-simplification, and the line varies from situation to situation.
Which brings me to my autistic ear. To choose the right words, I stay attuned to the words of others. How do parents describe their child? How does my co-worker describe a patient? This guides me to make an educated guess about their knowledge, background, beliefs. I may mirror their words, or I may decide their words are too dangerous to mirror. Either way, I use the information to guide my response.
In addition to an ear for vocabulary and syntax, I have an ear for tone and prosody. This is my salvation, since I do not have an eye for any but the most blatant of facial expressions or gestures. My ear tells me when families may be getting angry or frustrated. If an edge comes into their voice, I work the harder to remove any trace from my own.
I use my ear diagnostically, to figure out which children may join me in autismland. I listen for differences in pronoun use, phrases borrowed from TV or adult speakers and vocabulary which is unexpected for the child’s age. This helps me guide my referrals, even if I miss cues of eye contact or pointing. I joke about my ASDar, but it’s largely an ear.
Note that I did not say, “misuse of pronouns,” “echolalia” or “abnormal vocabulary.” Words matter. Respectful words matter. Even from the closet, I can model and insist on using words in useful ways. This means both avoiding language that serves to insult, and also that which serves to euphemize. This means choosing my words carefully for tact.
We are starting a new endeavor at work which has nothing to do with autism at all. But it is in an area of health care where language used to describe patients, by professionals and the general public, is often cruel. In addition to sorting out the medical knowledge I need to provide care for individuals in this group, I am trying to take a stand on language. I know that the language used by those in charge of a medical team has incredible potential to influence the language used by others. Language, in turn, affects attitudes, and attitudes can affect care. My stated goal is to use and encourage language that is both accurate and respectful, and to continually reiterate that these goals are not mutually exclusive.
That’s a mouthful, and not always the mouthful I will use at work. But I have to start in my head with the language that feels best to me. They may not know that I’m using my autistic ear and my autistic voice, but I’m using them none-the-less.
An autistic setting language models for others to use. Ooooh! I think I’ve found a new definition of irony!
no subject
- Angel (http://diaryofanalien1.blogspot.com)
no subject
Thank-you.
<333
P.S. I feel certain that I wrote something more than just a few lines long recently about my own relationship to language and how being hyperverbal *is* my most natural state, and that while being able to code-switch is incredibly useful, it would be a mistake to assume that 'simplifying' in the name of cognitive accessibility makes things equally accessible to everyone.